


and every colour illuminates

by hito



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-09
Updated: 2012-07-09
Packaged: 2017-11-09 11:36:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/455003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hito/pseuds/hito
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jungle redone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and every colour illuminates

**Author's Note:**

> This doesn't work with the timing at all, but this is what I wanted to happen, so. :) There may be more, depending on how the season goes.

Stiles is trying to ignore the sweat and lust and eager excitement around him as he shoves through the bodies on the dance floor, trying to get to Danny before Jackson does, when one of them jars him off-course. 

“Hey—“ he says, spoiling for a fight he can win, and then he realises it’s Derek. 

“Stiles,” Derek says, tilting his head. 

“Hi,” Stiles replies. “You’re in my way.” 

He waves his fingers at Derek, shaking him off. 

Derek doesn’t move. 

“Where are you going?” 

Stiles’ mouth opens, incredulous. “Uh—“ He waves a vague hand, feeling unequal to the task of explaining the last few weeks of their lives to Derek _before Danny dies_ , and steadies himself as the shifting crowd knocks him forward. 

Derek’s hand is on his shoulder, curling into the meat before Stiles steps back, into the press of flesh behind him. 

Derek is frowning at him; Stiles is impatient. 

“Kind of on a mission here, dude.” 

“What?” Derek asks sharply. 

“Saving the world, same as every other time I could be having fun,” Stiles says, eyes lingering on the bare skin moving beside him, sporadically iridescent in the strobing colours. 

He regrets it when he meets Derek’s eyes again, because he didn’t want Derek to know that about him, and it isn’t even as if Stiles is going to get anything out of the concession. Nobody here is going to give him a second look. 

The lights start blinking, blue and green and black, like Derek’s eyes, and there are hands on Stiles’ body he pulls away from in the darkness, and Derek looks angry when Stiles can see him in the light. 

They weren’t Derek’s hands. Stiles wouldn’t have been able to shake Derek’s hands. He doesn’t know why Derek is angry. He doesn’t care, because he can feel the seconds trickling by. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be killing this thing?” 

“I’m going to,” Derek growls. 

“Whatever,” Stiles scoffs, and tries to shove past Derek to get to Danny, but Derek’s hands are on him now, swinging him around, pushing him through the crowd as the lights flicker and flare, blankness and glare, Derek’s hands moving him in the darkness and Derek’s set face making his protests useless. 

Stiles watches Danny grow distant, sees Scott’s hair bobbing in the wrong direction. 

“What the hell! Kind of in the middle of something!” 

“You shouldn’t be here,” Derek says, like he’s Stiles’ dad, and, “If Scott’s going to let you do things like this he should turn you first, I don’t know what he—“ 

Stiles stops listening, because there are so many things wrong with that sentence his brain can’t handle hearing one more, and shuts down in self-defence. In practice, this means that Stiles is staring at Derek’s mouth as it moves. He doesn’t look away until Derek stops speaking, and it’s an effort. 

Derek is staring back at him, hair edged bright orange, green, blue—

“So you agree,” Derek says intently. 

“Mm,” Stiles says, distracted, and then the radiance of the bright golden light Derek is moving through is striking a silver gleam off the button on his jeans, off the zip on his jacket, and by the time Stiles lifts his head Derek is on him, fingers under Stiles’ chin to finish the motion, to tilt his head back for Derek’s kiss. 

For a second, Stiles freezes, and he isn’t sure he’s going to be able to get unstuck, but Derek’s tongue is licking wetly into Stiles’ mouth, over his palate, over his blunt teeth, tangling their tongues together, and then Derek is encouraging Stiles’ tongue into his own mouth, and Stiles is surging forward, gasping, hands clinging to Derek’s shoulders in a way he’s too turned on to be embarrassed about. 

He’s figuring this out; he’s doing fine, never mind his pounding heart that Derek can feel, can hear; he’s slipping his tongue over the hot, wet places in Derek’s mouth, over the inside of Derek’s lower lip, pulling back just far enough to take Derek’s lip between his own and suck on it, because he wants to do everything, wants to figure it all out now. 

And he _is_. He’s going to. 

He’s shaking before he pushes back into Derek’s mouth, before he forces Derek to open to him, before Derek starts sucking on his tongue; and then he’s moaning and his nails are digging into the leather of Derek’s jacket, leaving marks that aren’t going to go away; and Derek’s hands are on his skin, under his jacket, under his tshirt; and Stiles is shivering under the light touch of Derek's fingers, body arcing electric, and he can see washes of colour on his closed eyelids, hot and bright and unreal; and then Derek is twisting in Stiles’ arms, turning away. 

“What—“ Stiles says, far too late. 

“He’s attacking,” Derek says, attention somewhere else, past the writhing ocean of prey. 

Stiles’ heart begins to slow. 

“I need to take care of this,” Derek says. “I’ll be back when it’s done.” 

“When what’s done?” 

“When I kill Jackson,” Derek says impatiently, already striding away, and when Stiles yells, “I—did not agree to that!” it’s at his receding back. 

Derek can’t just go around killing Stiles’ friends—classmates—even if—

Then the screaming starts. 

Five minutes later, Stiles is in the parking lot, listening to his father mock the rumpled disarray of his clothing, and his heart is racing again.


End file.
